“So you are not the killer.” The investigator rolls the Coke can across his baked black forehead.
Nuru’s fingers drum on the table. “No,” he says.
The investigator crooks his head and a fat policeman shuffles forward, thumps an old solar laptop down between them. The investigator tracks his finger across the dirty screen and Nuru watches the murder play out in pixels.
“Here is you, here is your hands on his neck. Your hairs—everywhere.”
“Yes, yes, you know this means nothing.” Nuru’s fingers drum harder, angry.
The investigator flicks his tongue against the cold can like a lizard. “So why is your boss dead, you puppet son-of-a-whore?”
“I think it has to do with Kataryna,” Nuru says, and his organs feel suddenly damp and heavy in his gut. The investigator whirls away, showing off his exasperation. He curses in French, too fast to follow, but Nuru hears the word for Christian and recognizes guignol as well. He spins the laptop around and clacks something in.
“The white bitch?” he demands. “The European?”
The laptop faces Nuru again, showing a headshot. Her skin is bleached ghostly. The exposure was not meant for white skin, but the camera-man didn’t know better.
“Yes,” Nuru says, and his fingers die one by one on the plastic. “Her.”